Did you know teeth
are the only part of the skeleton
you can see?
I massage my daughter’s
bottom incisors,
little nubs budding
in slobbery beds.
I have never broken a bone,
but once I cracked a tooth
with my midnight clenching.
At fifteen, they sliced tender gums
to carve my wisdom teeth
from an unyielding mandible.
In the recurring nightmare,
canines and molars,
my two front teeth
loose their grip
from wet pink moorings,
crumbling like old stucco
into stale mouthfuls.
What becomes of these chipped
offerings?
My father’s dresser
rests primly against the wall,
bird’s-eye maple gleaming.
In the top drawer, his keepsakes:
arrowheads, a daily missal,
the masks he wore
at our births.
Days after, his scent still
hovering, I found our milk
teeth: tiny white bells
clinking gently
in a plastic bag.
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